


The Black Sheep

by latin_cat



Category: Blake et Mortimer | Blake and Mortimer
Genre: Ancestors, Book: L'Étrange Rendez-vous | The Strange Encounter, Family, Gen, Prequel, Spoilers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-27
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2021-03-06 02:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,467
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25556062
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/latin_cat/pseuds/latin_cat
Summary: In the Citadel of the Futurekind, Olrik conducts a very peculiar interrogation.N.B. Spoilers forL'Étrange Rendez-vousandL'Affaire Francis Blake.
Comments: 2
Kudos: 5





	The Black Sheep

**Author's Note:**

> WARNING: Use of racist slur from a historical character.

It has taken Olrik a while to fully wrap his head around the concept of travel by light. He’d had to have it explained to him twice by Dr Z’ong – in very simplified terms – before he a) believed it, and b) was comfortable with the idea. It hadn’t helped that his first experience of it had been so abrupt, confusing and terrifying, either.

The colonel had been in Hamburg at the time, making his way back to his hotel of an evening from a meeting with a potential client. Suddenly he’d been surrounded by three pillars of coloured light, which a split second later merged into one blinding white beam that had seemed to burn through his whole being. The next moment he was in a disorientated heap on the floor, chilled to the bone, gasping for breath and shaking. Shocked, dazed and confused, he had lifted his head and found himself staring up into the smug, grinning faces of Basum Damdu and his generals.

 _Get up!_ Olrik’s instincts had screamed at his uncomprehending mind and frozen muscles. _Get up and face them, or you’re done for!_

Somehow he had managed to force himself to his feet – and it had indeed saved his life, having unknowingly passed the Emperor’s sadistic test to see if he was ‘still as formidable as ever’. He was then carried away by guards to what looked like an infirmary where spindly, scaly men had treated him for hypothermia. Olrik had experienced all this passively; too exhausted and bewildered to even begin to understand what was happening to him. The strange creatures hadn’t seemed to want to hurt him, anyway, so he had submitted, rested as he was told, and hoped that someone would eventually see fit to tell him what was going on.

He must have slept, or been made to sleep, as some time later he woke to find a childlike reptilian figure checking his vital signs. This creature had introduced itself as ‘Dr Z’ong’, and finally, _finally_ , the situation had been explained – i.e. Basum Damdu was not dead and he, Olrik, was not hallucinating. Nor had he finally found his way to Hell. He had been snatched here to the Future World at the behest of Damdu – without warning or protection, as the Yellow Emperor’s twisted idea of a little joke. Olrik, for one, had not been laughing.

After this the colonel had been offered the chance to serve his former master, which Olrik had of course accepted. Faced with the frightening power of the Futurekind’s technology, and the knowledge that the Emperor would not hesitate to order his execution otherwise, what else could he do? Having dutifully sworn his loyalty to the Second Yellow Empire, Olrik was restored to his previous rank and position with immediate effect ( _Still a colonel,_ he had noted with detached bitterness), and had set about orchestrating the campaign that will once again bring the Great Powers of the twentieth century to their knees.

Unwillingly recruited or not, Olrik finds that he has actually missed this – not Basum Damdu of course, nor any of his toadies, but the work itself. He has effectively spent the last decade of his life marking time; scraping a living as a petty thief (Well, maybe not so ‘petty’, or ‘scraping’. He charges a lot for his services and the items he acquires are beyond the reach of the average criminal) whilst waiting for something better to come along – though admittedly he’d not had the least idea about what shape or form that ‘something’ would take. His company has been reduced to slow-witted henchmen and his filthy rich, dangerously eccentric employers, punctuated by occasional brushes with Mortimer and that wretched Blake. It’s why he’d jumped at the opportunity to assist Deloraine with his spy network; it had been a challenge, a chance for him to do something that _mattered_ again.

This operation, he realises with no small surprise, is exactly what he has been waiting for. Olrik does not fail to appreciate the irony. But it’s true; he’s in uniform again, he has disciplined and skilled men under his command, along with the company of officers and scientists from whom he can derive some intellectual stimulation. When he enters a room he receives the respect that is due to a man of his rank and abilities, which he has earned time and again through his own efforts and experience. Once more Olrik is valued for his true worth; _he_ matters again, and not simply as a means to an end. And it seems he has missed it more than he dared admit, even to himself.

As to his task, it is certainly the oddest operation the colonel has ever had to orchestrate. Ordinarily, the setting up of a network on the scale the Futurekind require would take decades – and it does, only not from Olrik’s perspective; one of the many benefits of Dr Z’ong’s remarkable engineering. Only yesterday he dispatched a deep cover agent to Washington D.C., and five minutes later had received a report containing six years’ worth of information. A lesser man would have trouble keeping hold of all the threads – It stretches even Olrik’s considerable abilities to the limit – but he is managing to keep all the plates spinning.

Now that he has fully regained the Emperor’s trust, he has begun to make visits to the past himself (Properly kitted-out this time with protective clothing!) as the elements in Wyoming start to call for his particular attention. It’s odd really, in an abstract sort of way, to think that whilst he is busy with his current work, elsewhere in the world his younger self is carrying on with life, oblivious to what lies ahead. The temptation to issue a warning for that wretched ‘Yellow M’ business is immense, but Olrik has been thoroughly briefed by Z’ong on the dangers of causality. And besides, who is to say he’d ever believe such a warning? He lived through that mess, and there are days when he still can’t quite credit the things that have happened – _are_ happening – to him! Olrik’s life has become stranger in ways that he could never have imagined, so he minds what Z’ong says, and keeps his mind focussed on the mission.

Despite this, he tries to spend as much time at home as possible – his home, the Futurekind’s past. In the eighty-first century the landscape beyond the Citadel is a windswept desert; nothing but barren rocks, scorching sand, and relentless heat. For curiosity’s sake he had once taken a step outside the Citadel’s protection barrier, and it had nearly finished him; assaulted by the elements, he had barely managed to crawl back inside. That night he had been beset by nightmares, revisting the horrors of the Sahara. Now he doesn’t so much as take a glance out of the Palace windows.

Yes, this mad scheme of Z’ong’s and Damdu’s is essentially a power grab; but, in Olrik’s private opinion, if there's the remotest chance it may in any way stop this devastation coming to pass, then all the better for it.

The colonel has been in the eighty-first century for seven months when it comes to his attention that the Futurekind still retain a prisoner from their early attempts to bring people forward from the past. This news piques Olrik’s interest, and he sends for the prisoner’s file in order to learn more. He is further intrigued when he reads the legend printed on the cover; _Lachlan MacQuarrie, Major._

The name rings a bell, and as Olrik digests the information before him he quickly realises why. _A British officer of the 62 nd Foot, the Wiltshire Regiment … Taken from North America in 1777 … One of a handful of survivors in retreat from Saratoga …_ He has read this story before, only from the other side, so to speak. Ever since the end of the last war, Olrik has been steadily collating information about the two main thorns in his side, with no detail too superficial to be disregarded. The wealth of trivia he now has at his fingertips regarding his Dear Enemies is considerable and eclectic; from Francis Blake’s inside leg measurement, to the number of times Philip Mortimer was caned at school. As Olrik recalls, Lachlan MacQuarrie, the so-called Black Sheep of Clan MacQuarrie, is an ancestor of Mortimer’s through his mother, Lady Eileen Hunter of Pitlochry.

 _Well, well_ , the colonel muses. So the drummer boy did tell the truth after all, and the major had not abandoned his men. And how very amusing that Olrik should find himself connected, even indirectly, with the disgrace of Mortimer’s ancestor. If only the professor knew… A grin spreads across the colonel’s face as he imagines Mortimer’s likely reaction to this revelation. A pity he will never find out.

According to the file, the Futurekind have been holding MacQuarrie for three years. This puzzles Olrik for a while, until he reads the notes recording periodic physiological examinations conducted on the prisoner by Dr Z’ong. The colonel frowns at this. The little doctor is obsessed with comparing the biology of what he calls ‘Classic’ humanity with the ‘New’, and as such has conducted medical and physical examinations on every past human to arrive in the Citadel; something about “DNA shift” and “continued genetic compatibility”, whatever that means in real terms. Z’ong had firstly conducted tests on these past specimens – dead _and_ alive – and then, with the permission of the Emperor, on all humans brought forward to the future. Olrik himself had not escaped this indignity, despite his best attempts to slide out of it; but he has to admit Z’ong performed the necessary examinations with the greatest professionalism and respect, and so he had gritted his teeth and endured the ordeal with minimal protest.

Even so, there are times when the doctor reminds him uncomfortably of Septimus, and whilst Olrik may have reluctantly consented to this scrutiny, MacQuarrie was anything but a willing participant. Yet neither has Olrik ever let his feeling sorry for prisoners get in the way of doing his duty, and he returns to his reading. Three years… He wonders why the Futurekind have not simply executed MacQuarrie, until he remembers how reluctant humanity’s mutilated descendants are to kill. It is understandable, in a way; when living in a world with so little life, you do not want to waste any of it. But three years? Death would certainly have been kinder.

When Olrik has finished his reading, he sits back in his chair and mulls over what he has learnt. He is of course aware of Z’ong’s experiments that brought forward those from a more distant past than his own present, but to actually talk to one of them… Even disregarding the personal connection to Mortimer, Olrik knows this is too unique an opportunity to miss. Besides, a more permanent solution to MacQuarrie’s current limbo needs to be found, and talking to the man will help Olrik decide what that ought to be. So he calls in his aide and arranges for the prisoner to be brought up from his cell to an interrogation room the following day.

At the appointed time, Olrik is stationed in the guard room where he watches on the video monitor as the major is brought into a Spartan room and sat roughly in one the two chairs pulled up at the table.

Physically, he is pretty much as Olrik is expecting; a man in his thirties, of medium height, pale skin, and a square-ish face framed by thick sideburns. His long hair, tied back into a queue, is horribly ginger, as opposed to Mortimer’s more subdued auburn. Olrik cannot see the colour of the major’s eyes from here, but the file records that they are blue. There is a superficial resemblance, certainly, but the colonel had not supposed there would be anything more marked. Certainly not after two centuries.

Over the years, Olrik has found that there are two main ways to begin an interrogation. The first is to be in the room when the prisoner is brought in, poised and ready to start questioning before the other party can orientate themselves, and therefore must start at a disadvantage. The second is to wait; to watch and observe, leave the prisoner wondering what is going to happen next whilst getting a feel for their behaviour and mannerisms – particularly effective when a subject is unaware they are being observed. As Olrik is not after any specific information from the major, rather only wishing to converse with him in general terms and see what opens up, he opts for the second approach.

Left alone, MacQuarrie is wearing his original clothes; breeches, stockings and shirt only, as the guards had not given him the option to put on his coat or boots before turning him out of his cell. He has settled into a despondent posture, hands clasped together on the table in front of him, almost as if in prayer. He is not cuffed – the guards have no fear of him putting up a fight, and Olrik can understand why. The colonel recognises true despair when he sees it, and MacQuarrie has the look of a man who has given up belief in any sort of future.

After five minutes observing the prisoner on the live feed, Olrik decides to set the ball rolling and heads down to the interrogation room. The guards outside brace up, and one immediately unlocks the door.

MacQuarrie looks up at the sound of the door being opened, and Olrik catches the moment when his expression changes from one of half-hearted resentment to genuine surprise. Understandable; his is the first European face the man has seen in over three years. Also, had the colonel any doubts about the major’s relation to Mortimer, they would have been dispelled in that instant, as the look of astonishment on MacQuarrie’s face is exactly the same as the one he has so often witnessed from the professor. Olrik puts on an affable air and steps into the room.

‘Good afternoon, Major,’ he says in English.

To his credit, MacQuarrie quickly recovers his composure, and schools his features into something resembling cautious neutrality.

‘I find it hard tae ken the time o’ day wir I cannae see outside,’ he says gruffly.

Olrik supresses a grimace at the thought of the arid wasteland beyond the Citadel.

‘Trust me, there’s nothing to see,’ he answers shortly, whilst automatically taking note of the major’s accent. The colonel is not as _au fait_ with the Scottish regions as those of England, but he knows the MacQuarries are a Hebridean clan. The Islanders are renowned for their impenetrable dialect, so it appears MacQuarrie is tempering his speech – a habit most likely developed for the benefit of his primarily English and Welsh troops. Briefly Olrik tries to imagine Mortimer with such an accent, but quickly derails that train of thought as the result threatens to make him laugh.

He crosses to the table and pulls out the chair opposite MacQuarrie. Once sat down, he places the major’s file he has brought with him on the table, then removes his cap and rests it on top. Just so. He turns his gaze back to the prisoner, who has been watching his every move closely, and settles back in his seat.

‘Allow me to introduce myself. I am Colonel Olrik, Chief of Intelligence and Military Advisor to His Imperial Majesty Basum Damdu, Ruler of the Second Yellow Empire.’

MacQuarrie’s eyes – which are indeed blue, and had momentarily shown a glimmer of hope – now become openly hostile.

‘Ye’re one o’ them,’ he growls.

‘I am at the service of the Emperor, yes.’

This does not, however, seem to be what the major meant, and he shakes his head angrily, suddenly agitated.

‘Some new trick, is this? Ye’ll no’ fool me! Show me the face o’ one ma ain kind? Why? Tae torment me? Ah’ve seen ye scaly creatures, seen thae gloves an’ masks ye wear tae pretend ye’ve human skin! Ye’re one o’ them, make nae mistake!’

Olrik is momentarily taken aback; chiefly by how much MacQuarrie seems to know about his captors’ plans. It would appear Z’ong has been somewhat lax in his security measures, probably considering the major too primitive to understand what he saw and heard. But another valuable lesson Olrik has learnt in his considerable experience is never to mistake ‘primitive’ for ‘stupid’. What else might MacQuarrie have gleaned in his three years here?

Security issues aside, it is a given that the interview will go much better if the major is not of the opinion that his interrogator is a “scaly man” in disguise, and so it would do to dispel him of this idea quickly. Words will not be enough, however. Happily a solution comes readily, and Olrik pulls up the sleeve of his right arm to expose his wrist, offering it to the major for inspection. He gives a thin smile.

‘“Reach hither thy finger, and behold my hands: and be not faithless, but believing”.’

It works, judging by the look of shock on MacQuarrie’s face at hearing the verse from John. Personally, Olrik has always sided with Thomas in that scenario, feeling it rather unfair to chastise the apostle for wanting solid proof of a dead man’s return to life.

Hesitantly, perhaps because he is still deciding if Olrik is serious or not, MacQuarrie touches the colonel’s wrist; testing the heat of the skin, feeling the pulse point, suddenly pinching and twisting to make sure that it is attached. Olrik winces in pain, but makes an effort not to react otherwise. Allowing anyone, let alone a prisoner of his, the liberty of touch is somewhat strange, but it will be the most expedient method.

MacQuarrie stares for a long moment as the skin reddens where he pinched it, then meets Olrik’s gaze with wonder, and not a little confusion.

‘Ye’re a true Christian, then?’ he asks.

Olrik tries not to pull a face, remembering that MacQuarrie’s frame of reference is somewhat different to his own; though he _is_ technically correct.

‘As much as the next man,’ he grunts, withdrawing his arm and pulls his sleeve back down again. ‘I trust you are satisfied as to my human credentials?’

MacQuarrie narrows his eyes. ‘Ye’re no’ English, though,’ he says bluntly. ‘Fir all ye speak it well. An’ ye’re no’ Frenchman. So whit are ye? Prussian? Austrian? Brunswicker? Hessian?’

Olrik merely shrugs.

‘It doesn’t particularly matter,’ he says dismissively, though he gives points for the major’s guesses being fairly close. ‘My nationality has no bearing on my loyalties, if that is what you’re wondering.’

‘A mercenary, then.’ The distaste is plain in MacQuarrie’s voice. ‘An' ye’ve selt yer service tae thae slant-eyed devils?’

‘My skills were requested,’ Olrik says coolly. He is certainly not going to confess to being snatched just as the major was. ‘I have served the Emperor in the past, and he wished to secure my services for this campaign also.’

For a minute the men sit there, sizing each other up. Now he has a moment to study MacQuarrie up close, Olrik can see better that the major is not coping well with long-term confinement. Even under an eighteenth century shirt he looks thin, there are deep bags under his eyes and he has the general hangdog air of a man who has been put under too much strain and is near breaking point – a fact that seems to be supported when a moment later the major drops his eyes to the table and lets go a shallow sigh.

‘Mercenary or nae, ye’re still a gentleman,’ he murmurs quietly. ‘So whit dae ye want o’ me?’

‘To speak with you,’ Olrik says honestly. ‘And to give some consideration to your case, and how to resolve it.’

MacQuarrie looks up at him again, but without much hope. ‘An' whit’s changed?’

‘I have.’

The major sighs again and shakes his head wearily.

‘Three years,’ he says bitterly. ‘They would’nae give me parole, nor offer exchange. They shut me awa’, letting me out only tae have needles poked in me, an' all manner o’ tortures in the name o’ their “natural philosophy”. Fir twa years I saw none but thae lizard men, then the Orientals started appearing, more an' more. I thought at the sight o’ ye they’d finally decided tae let me go, tae send me back tae ma ain –’

‘I’m afraid that’s impossible,’ Olrik says flatly. ‘The dangers involved in altering past events are too numerous, and history records that you do not return.’

In that moment something flares in MacQuarrie’s expression, straightening his back and temporarily lifting him from his torpor. Again, Olrik is struck by the uncanny sense of similarity to Mortimer.

‘But ye’re all about changing the past,’ he snaps. ‘That’s whit the scaly sawbones said. Ah’ve seen them, making ready thir spies tae send back an' twist events tae their will! Whit difference can it make tae send me home?’

Olrik gives a tight smile. MacQuarrie has definitely seen too much.

‘It is not _your_ history that the Emperor is interested in changing,’ he says tersely.

‘Good God, man!’ The major strikes his fist on the table, looking at Olrik with pleading, desperate eyes. ‘For the love o’ all that’s Holy, can ye no’ see the evil they’ll unleash? Thir yellow devils cannae be allowed tae enslave the world! Will ye dae aught tae stop them?’

Olrik is careful to make sure his expression remains utterly unchanged. MacQuarrie may not know they are under surveillance, but the colonel is acutely aware of the fact and knows certain still hostile elements within the Great Council will be examining this footage at a later date. As such, he will not give them the slightest ammunition against him, no matter what personal distaste he may harbour for Damdu, or the grotesque Futurekind.

‘You are speaking of the Emperor,’ he says measuredly. ‘And I will remind you to show the necessary respect in doing so.’

MacQuarrie’s face goes slack, disbelieving, desolate. Like his descendant, it seems, he has made the mistake of assuming that Olrik feels any obligation beyond securing his own prosperity and survival.

‘Then I was wrong,’ he says hollowly. ‘Ye’re no gentleman, nae even an officer. Ye’re the Beast that crawls on its belly!’

For some unexpected reason the insult bites deep, and Olrik feels a flare of genuine anger in his chest. Any pity the colonel might have felt for the man’s situation instantly dries up. Exactly like Mortimer, MacQuarrie has the gall to judge and appoint himself his moral superior for clinging to trite and outmoded ideals of “good” and “evil”; small-minded concepts for small-minded men. Well, he has what he came for. Time to bring this meeting to an end.

Olrik raises his hand in the agreed-upon signal, and immediately hears the key in the lock.

‘Shall I tell you the real reason for concerning myself with you, major?’ he says calmly, coldly as the guards enter and stand to one side, awaiting Olrik’s further orders. ‘Strange as it may seem, you were already known to me before I came here. I have crossed swords, so to speak, with one of your descendants.’

MacQuarrie’s eyes light up with a satisfaction and gives the colonel an undeniably smug smile.

‘An' the laddie bloodied yer nose, I take it?’ he crows. ‘Good! An' so ma line endures, despite all yer devilish tricks!’

Olrik leans back in his seat, relaxed, and furnishes the major with a wolfish smile. He's going to enjoy this.

‘Oh, it endures,’ he says with relish. ‘But at a very great cost. You see, after Saratoga what remains of your regiment is slaughtered, only three men making it back to British lines alive. Despite their testimony you are branded a deserter; a coward who ran, betraying his King and Country, and left his men to die. Shamed by your actions and labelled outcasts, your wife and three children end their days in abject poverty, and your name goes down in history as the Black Sheep of the Clan MacQuarrie.’

His smile broadens.

‘So why, my dear major, would I have any desire to see that past changed?’

Olrik watches with deep glee as MacQuarrie’s face pales with fury, and does not flinch as the major suddenly leaps from his seat with a roar, only for it to turn into an anguished cry as the guards catch him by the arms and bring him to his knees with the butts of their rifles.

‘Bastard!’ the man chokes. ‘Bastard!’

Olrik merely smirks, quietly revelling in MacQuarrie’s despair and anger.

‘Take him back to his cell,’ he tells the guards in Tibetan, calmly fishing in his pocket to take out is cigarette case.

He sits there smoking nonchalantly, ignoring the further insults hurled at him as the major is dragged out of the room and away down the corridor.

 _So that is what a man from the past is like,_ he reflects when all is quiet once again. If so, it was disappointingly similar to the men of the present.

Still smoking, he rises to his feet and puts on his cap, tucking the unopened folder beneath his arm and heading back to his office. He will recommend the major for execution; not out of any desire to be spiteful, or even kind, but purely from a practical perspective. The longer the man is kept around here the more he will learn, and so becomes a bigger security risk should he somehow take advantage of his keepers’ complacency and escape; for all the major’s exhaustion, the colonel recognises he is not yet spent. Besides, Z’ong must have learnt all he can from his “specimen” now, and if he cannot be returned to his own time, Olrik reckons that returning him to the present-day world wouldn't be any better, if not worse.

With that decision he banishes thoughts of MacQuarrie and his no less irritating descendant from his head, and returns his attention to the task ahead. He is due at the old pumping station in a week to oversee the formation of their motor transport fleet. More and more of the pieces are falling into place, and very soon they will have all the resources they need, both in hardware and personnel, to set the final stages of the operation in motion.

Basum Damdu is a rip-tide, and as ever Olrik will ride it out on top, whilst others of a less flexible nature are destined to be pulled under. The World owes Olrik nothing, and likewise Olrik owes nothing to the World. The Future will come in whatever form it sees fit.

FIN.

**Author's Note:**

> Note on Scots: I decided to not be absolutely authentic with MacQuarrie's use of Scots, mainly because it's much kinder all round on the reader. Plus, as mentioned, the major's years in the South and abroad will by necessity have watered it down significantly.


End file.
